This is not a personal s.., p.5
This Is Not a Personal Statement, page 5
This girl’s late arrival gives me a couple more days to find a more permanent room. My parents will still be able to see me moved in before they make the long drive back home, chatting teary-eyed about how proud they are of me. Probably.
“I’m in room 217,” I say, letting the papers flip back down. I shove the clipboard back at him.
He calls the number behind him, and an East Asian girl reaches into a heavy-looking file box and pulls out an envelope. “This key’s for your room only. You’ll need your student ID to get in and out of the residence hall itself. You want any help with your bags?”
I shake my head, already walking away. Through the thin paper, I feel a plastic card. My room key. Or rather, Samantha Simon’s room key, for when she arrives next week. A thrill at this first success hums through my veins, like I aced a pop quiz or beat a mission on expert difficulty. I almost skip back to my parents.
At the car, Dad fills a cart with my new stuff: a fluffy pillow, my bed-in-a-bag set we’d picked up at Nordstrom last week, a roomy laptop backpack. Mom taps her manicured fingers on the handle of my one rolling suitcase of clothes. I had purposely packed light, knowing that it may take me some time to find an empty room to settle in.
The doors to the residence hall are propped open for move-in hours. I lead my parents past all the volunteers with their walkie-talkies and lists. We cram into the elevator, arranging ourselves around the cart.
Seconds later, the doors open to a gray-patterned carpeted landing, bordered by white walls that look like they’ve been painted over a hundred times. Thanks to a Pinterest board of an RA from last year, I knew how seriously the staff took Welcome Week door decorating, and sure enough, construction-paper dragons featuring the resident’s name are taped on each door.
I practically sprint out of the elevator, leaving Mom and Dad to maneuver the wobbly moving cart through the elevator doors. I make it to room 217 first, and a green “Samantha” dragon stares at me. From the elevator, this is one long hallway with a clear line of sight, so my parents would notice me tinkering with the decorations. I quickly swipe the room key into the door’s card reader. It blinks green, and the lock clicks open. I bite back a sigh of relief, but not before swinging the door open and tearing down the “Samantha” dragon now hidden behind me. I make a note to replace it or pull down some other dragons so my room’s not so out of place later, but for now, I’m hoping there’s not some surprise This is Samantha Simon’s room! banner strung between the walls inside.
The room is thankfully bare, and when my parents wheel our cart over, we gaze into the tiny space that’s supposed to be my home for the next year.
Dad purses his lips and exhales through his nose. “At least we’re not paying for this.”
If they notice the personalized door decoration missing, they don’t mention it. My parents are more focused on the fact that there’s just enough room for the bed and the desk, and I doubt we can have the cart and all three of us inside at the same time. Dad parks the cart right outside of the door and grabs the bed-in-a-bag set.
Mom angles the handle of my rolling suitcase toward me. “You’d think a school with an endowment the size of Delmont’s could upgrade its student housing.” Her eyes fix on a streak of rust on the door hinge, and her lips dip into a frown.
“It’s . . .” I struggle to spin this. “. . . cozy.”
Mom and Dad exchange a glance, but I cut off conversation by grabbing my suitcase and heading inside.
This room, the size of my parents’ walk-in closet, feels smaller and smaller as we unload the cart’s contents. It’s not spacious or state-of-the-art or even that clean, but it checks every one of my boxes: it’s private, empty, and, best of all, on the Delmont campus, a six-hour drive from Monte Verde.
When the cart is empty, Dad brushes his hands off on his dark jeans. “It’s a good thing you left Bip and Bop at home. There’s barely enough space for you.”
I’m about to remind him that I don’t need to bring my childhood teddy bears with me everywhere I go, but then I’m hit with a pang of regret. I actually miss the two fluffy faces, judgmental as they may be.
“Are you sure this room is okay, Perlie?” Dad asks. His hand lingers by the phone in his pocket, as if he’s willing to look up and call every Delmont dorm authority possible to ask for a room change, if I wanted it. Only the best for Ernie Perez’s family.
I toss my pillow onto the bed and smile as I assess my new dorm room. “It’s perfect.”
I usher my parents out of Keith Hall as the next batch of students moves in.
“You call when you’re all unpacked, okay? We can mail anything you need,” Mom says, her hands still on my arms, as if she’s not ready to break the hug yet. She smells of freesia and vanilla, a high-end perfume that a top client complimented and that she now wears everywhere. Mom had originally wanted to spend a few days helping me settle in, but thankfully, Dad has to be back in Monte Verde for a trial tomorrow.
“I will.”
“We’re only six hours away. Five, if I drive.”
“I know.”
“So if you need anything, you just—”
“Lina, let’s go,” Dad cuts in, one hand on the steering wheel, the other fiddling with the navigation app on his phone. “She knows how to reach us. And she has our Amazon password.”
Mom finally drops her arms and joins Dad.
The closing of the car door rattles a piece of my courage loose, revealing a hint of regret that wasn’t supposed to be there. I want to jump back into the car. I want to rewind.
I lock eyes with Mom, and, for a moment, her gaze softens, like there’s something important she wants to say but she’s struggling to find the right words.
What comes out is “Study hard, okay, Perlie? No distractions.”
“And no boys,” Dad adds with a joking-but-not-really smile. “Only As.”
I nearly laugh at how far from a made-for-TV-movie farewell this is. This is their heartfelt way of saying goodbye, and their predictability is actually comforting: of course they’d take these last seconds to remind me that their rules and expectations stretch all the way down the coast.
I wave goodbye and spout out a few more assurances of “I’ll be fine, really”; then they join the row of cars disappearing down the hill. I watch them go, shielding my eyes against the Southern California sun that keeps the air summery hot. I don’t know how September came so fast. One day I was handing Dad a freshly printed admissions letter, then suddenly I’m standing in front of one of the oldest residence halls at Delmont, wondering if he looked back in the rearview mirror at me one last time.
A cart crashes against my side.
“Sorry,” a Latina girl with purple hair says. It’s shaved on one side, and the other side hangs long, obscuring her vision. I rub my hip, where a bruise is sure to bloom.
The woman next to her, her mother judging by the same wide face, reaches out to help the girl with the cart. “Careful, Tessita!”
“Mom,” the girl pushes out through clenched teeth. “Tessa, please. And I got this.”
“All right, Tessa. But you’re going the wrong way. The volunteer said the elevator’s in the other direction.”
“I can show you,” I offer. I don’t want to stay out here amid the tears and goodbyes much longer anyway. Plus, the more I go in and out of the building, the more people will accept me as part of the Delmont scenery. That’s what I need to be if I’m going to stay here long enough to apply for the next semester: someone who’s familiar enough that you let me into a building without swiping a student ID but who’s unremarkable enough that you don’t ask where I’m going.
Tessa’s mother rewards me with a gleaming smile and a story about their parking troubles as we weave our way to the elevator.
“Which floor?” My finger hovers just off the brass elevator buttons.
Tessa plucks the envelope from the back pocket of her torn jeans. “Two, please. I’m in 210.”
“We’re on the same floor,” I note.
Tessa could be a good candidate for my part three: make a friend, but not a close one. I’m trying to learn about Delmont and other admitted students so I can use it to my advantage when applying for the spring class, and what better way than to pick the brain of someone who’s here with me?
Making friends has never been one of my strengths though. My Monte Verde yearbook is proof of that. It’s why I included in my spreadsheet six links to articles on small talk and how to generally be a social, unawkward member of the community.
I push the 2 button. “I’m . . .” It occurs to me then that no one here knows me as Perlie. I can shed my cutesy family nickname, finally, like this Tessa girl is trying to do with Tessita. “. . . Perla Perez.”
“Nice to meet you, Perla. I’m Belinda Rivera, Tessa’s mother.” Belinda reaches her hand out to shake mine, which I do, awkwardly, holding the handshake a second too long. I don’t remember the last time I shook someone’s hand—maybe the principal when I got my diploma? Nor do I remember the last time I was formally introduced to someone new. I should probably practice. Delmont is chock-full of someone-news, and I don’t want to be remembered as the weird girl who doesn’t know how to properly shake a hand. I wish I’d reread some of those articles on small talk on the drive here.
The elevator chimes and the doors slide open, distracting both mother and daughter. I let them exit first, and they’re so preoccupied with finding the right room that they don’t notice me slip by them.
I close the door to my room and blow out a breath. I force my hands to unclench. I hadn’t realized I was wound so tight.
I’m here. I’m finally at Delmont.
Exactly where I’m supposed to be and not supposed to be.
The thought dynamites the emotional dam holding back my tears. They flow free. I crumble down onto the floor, my back against the cold door.
Since the day I’d forged the admittance letter, the guilt bubbled in my stomach. But with each proud smile from my parents and their offhand mentions to everyone who’d listen that their daughter was going to Delmont, that guilt began to clear. In its place grew a determination to succeed, and when I’d opened up the spreadsheet last night to finalize some plan details, I thought the guilt was all but vanquished. No, it was still there, weakened, but waiting.
I let my head hang, the heart pendant gleaming below my chin. I grip it tight, the shape of the pearl imprinting into my palm. Part of me isn’t surprised I let the lie get this far. The Perez family is supposed to be the best: the models of success, intelligence, and new wealth. I can’t be the failure in the family, the one our friends and family will whisper about, with their “sayangs” and “she had so much potentials.” I refuse to be, because I know I’m exceptional.
Every deviation from the infallible Perlie’s Academic Plan is a crack in the family’s polished veneer, and heaven forbid anyone look close enough at the Perezes to see that.
A tear drops onto the gray carpet beneath me, joining a growing splotch. It’s too late to tell my parents now. I can’t imagine the anger this level of deception would incur. Or maybe my parents would dole out an even worse punishment: go quiet, then let the thick disappointment smother me.
I lift my head and stare into my new room.
I earned this, no matter what that admissions letter said.
Delmont’s the one that made the mistake, not me. My reapplication will give them a chance to recognize their error and remedy that.
I drag the bottom hem of my shirt across my face to mop up the tears. I am determined to see this through. I have every detail of this plan spelled out and spreadsheeted. This time next semester, I’ll be moving into a tiny dorm room with my name rightfully on it.
I haul myself onto my feet and dig through my backpack for my new MacBook: a college gift from Dad. On this hard drive hides a copy of my password-protected seven-part-plan spreadsheet. I’ve got work to do if I’m going to make myself a part of Delmont, use what I learn about the campus to tailor my application and personal statement, then resubmit the whole package at the end of November for the next incoming class.
I slide the window open to let in some fresh air to clear my mind. A massive tree branch sits right outside my window, its leaves tickling the flimsy screen between us.
Keith Hall sits the highest on this hill, and a steep, tree-covered slope drops down to the next hall, affording me plenty of privacy. My window looks out at a thick covering of trees rather than straight into someone else’s room, like the more crowded dorms at the bottom of the hill.
Off in the distance, the Delmont marching band starts practice. The faint vibration of drums flows into my room with the breeze.
There’s a knock on my door, and I swipe my hands under my eyes to make sure the tears are gone. I ignore the alarm in my chest—I’m supposed to be in this room after all; Samantha Simon who?—paint on a smile, and answer.
Tessa stands in the hallway, her hands stuffed in her pockets. A lighter line circles her brown wrist, like she was out enjoying the sun all summer and a watch got in the way.
“Hey, Perla, right? I didn’t get to thank you for showing us the elevator. And for not being super weirded out when my mom shook your hand like she was trying to sell you something. She’s got her own consulting business, and she doesn’t know how to introduce herself to normal people.”
She grins as she apologizes, and I match it.
“Thanks for thinking I’m normal.”
“Anyway, want to grab dinner later? It’ll be kinda like a mini support group from being traumatized by my mom’s aggressive friendliness.” She juts a thumb down the hallway.
I ignore the part of me that wants to wallow alone in my stolen dorm room and pore over my plan. My feelings are still too raw. If I stay in here, I might be tempted to call Mom and Dad and ruin everything I’d painstakingly constructed. A dinner can’t hurt. And I can use this to gather more information for my plan.
“Sure, text me when you head out.” I don’t need any more surprise knocks on a door that isn’t mine. After dinner, I’ll come up with more ways to hide my temporary residency, to minimize the noise and even light leaking out of the room.
We exchange phone numbers, and as Tessa leaves, I close the door and smile into my tiny dorm as another breeze blows in. The leaves rustle and brush my window.
Parts one, two, and three of my plan already in motion? I’m impressed at my own progress. This is precisely the kind of intelligence and maturity my parents would be proud of—if they knew, which they never can.
So why can’t I shake the worry deep in my chest that these small wins are simply Band-Aids over broken bones?
Six
The sun is barely starting to set by the time Tessa and I spill out into the cul-de-sac. Most of the cars are gone, so the two of us can walk free on the hot black asphalt. Cleared-off registration tables, dying balloons, and abandoned carts block the sidewalks.
Tessa peers down at her crumpled campus map. I don’t need one. I’d spent a few hours over the summer memorizing the layout of the residence halls, figuring out the best routes for getting places fast and, most importantly, undetected.
“There are four dining halls. Any preference on where to go? I knocked on the RA’s door to try to introduce myself and ask for recommendations, but she was on the phone. Not exactly the warm Delmont welcome spelled out in all our materials.”
“Word on the street is that the best dining hall is in Godwin Village,” I offer. I’d come across a ranking of the dining halls on a student blog.
Tessa bites her lower lip and scans her map. “It’s at the bottom of this hill.”
We gaze down the steep hill that my parents’ car had made effortless earlier.
“Your intel better be correct, Perla. You want me to walk all the way down there and back, on a full stomach?” With a smile, she tucks the map into her back pocket. “It’s a good thing no one else took me up on my dinner offer. You’d be outvoted.”
We walk to the campus soundtrack of cars, people, and far-off lawn mowers. I instantly like Tessa. We’ve spent a total of ten minutes together, and she hasn’t tried to play the “I’m better than you because” card once. This isn’t like Monte Verde High at all: we’re not jockeying for a higher position than anyone else. She doesn’t care—or know—that I’m younger and treat me differently because of it. She doesn’t associate me with the flawless Monte Verde Perezes, conjecture about my GPA, or seem to strategize about the best way to use me.
We’re all new and trying to figure this place out.
It’s refreshing.
Mid-conversation about majors, Tessa grabs the door handle, and we find ourselves in a long line to enter the dining room. I peer at the front, trying to figure out what the delay is.
Someone is scanning student IDs.
Which I don’t have.
A lump hardens in my throat. A recent grad’s blog assured me that most campus dining establishments take cash. Apparently not this one though: there isn’t a cash register in sight. Just an older white woman in a wheelchair and a dark blue apron, monitoring the card scanners on either side of her. There’s no getting past her without swiping a student ID.
They’re going to find me, the non-Delmont Delmont student, before I’ve even unzipped my suitcase. The panic bangs around in my chest like a pinball.
“—which I think will be interesting, but my mom will probably say something like she doesn’t know what jobs will come out of it.” Tessa pauses. “You okay, Perla?”
